


What Can I Do?

by DoctorRainyStardusttheThird (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flashbacks, Guilty Greg Lestrade, Guilty John Watson, Implied/Referenced Torture, Oneshot, Other, PTSD Sherlock, Panic Attacks, Poor Sherlock, Serbia - Freeform, bit of Violence, can't stop tagging, donovan does better this time, papa lestrade, sherlock is sarcastic af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-06-08 08:32:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15239496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/DoctorRainyStardusttheThird
Summary: Sherlock, Donovan, Lestrade and John are on a case where Sherlock encounters an old 'friend' - namely, the man who tortured him in Serbia.Locked in a room with the other three, Sherlock begins to lose control. Secrets come out and they realise Sherlock might already be the 'good man' Lestrade wants him to be.Warning:  Flashbacks, PTSD





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is because i think the show kinda glossed over what happened in serbia and i like to think that lestrade and john one day learn what sherlock did for them.
> 
> it's intended as a one shot but if you like it i'll add another chapter - s'long as you leave prompts in the comments because i'm not sure where i'd take this after
> 
> WARNING: major angst
> 
> could be sherlolly if you've got your goggles on
> 
> enjoy :)

They were encircled. Lestrade closed his eyes. _Oh, hell._

They’d been tracking the drug ring for six weeks now. Sherlock had helped out when he could, though he’d been busy with work for Mycroft too. Something to do with a terrorist network. But Sherlock had given them the lead they needed, and they’d found the base where they kept the drugs and had gone in to investigate, despite Sherlock warning them that he didn’t think it was empty.

He’d been right.

Lestrade cursed under his breath. He, Donovan, John and Sherlock stood in a circle, hands up, while six men pointed machine guns at them. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

‘Are you going to threaten us?’ he said conversationally. ‘Because, no offense intended, this is getting dull.’

‘Shut up, freak,’ Donovan snapped.

‘I have places to be,’ Sherlock said. ‘Important places.’

‘Oh, we know,’ the closest man growled. ‘You’re that secret agent that runs around London getting our people arrested.’

‘Not a secret agent,’ Sherlock corrected. ‘Well, not technically, though I am on the agency’s payroll.’

‘You are?’ Lestrade muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock smirked. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he replied. ‘How else do you think I pay the rent?’

‘Shut up!’ the same man snarled. ‘Get the boss, now. He’ll know what to do.’

Someone entered. Sherlock began deducing immediately. There was something familiar about him…Sherlock frowned. Smart suit, Italian make, however worn more than once in the past few days so wanted to keep up the impression of being powerful and rich but in reality couldn’t –

‘Don’t,’ John murmured, ‘start deducing out loud now. There are six guns pointed in our direction and I don’t want my brains splattered on the wall.’

‘John Watson, is it not?’ the man who’d just entered smiled genially. He had dark brown eyes and crooked teeth. John felt Sherlock tense next to him. ‘I read your blog. Amusing, really, how little you know about your little friend here.’ His English was unaccented but formal, hinting he was from somewhere else.

Lestrade and Donovan shuddered as the man moved past them, leering closer in a show of dominance. He paused in front of Sherlock, who yawned and scratched his ear with his raised hand.

‘Hello, Markovic,’ the consulting detective said casually.

Markovic raised his eyebrows. ‘I am surprised you recognise me. I have been doing rather better for myself as of late.’

‘Your English has improved, at any rate. Though I confess myself surprised at your promotion, considering your last little project failed so spectacularly.’

Markovic scowled. ‘People don’t usually escape me, Mr Holmes.’

Sherlock lounged back. ‘I’m not most people, Viktor. Tell me, is your wife getting on well with the coffin maker?’

With no warning, Markovic punched Sherlock on the jaw. Sherlock reeled backwards with the force of the blow, but barely flinched when the man raised his hand again.

‘Ah, so I was right.’

Lestrade’s raised hands trembled. He didn’t know why Sherlock was annoying the criminal like this – he seemed determined to get himself and his friends shot. But what was clear was that Sherlock had had dealings with this man before – and that Sherlock had perhaps escaped him and got him into trouble with his boss. The man – Markovic – would be wanting revenge. Donovan’s swallow beside him told Lestrade that she’d reached the same conclusion.

‘My brother is on his way, Markovic,’ Sherlock said calmly. ‘You remember Mycroft, don’t you? Mycroft Holmes?’

Markovic looked worried for a second.

‘Let my friends go, Markovic. Shoot them – shoot me – and you’ll have a lot to answer for, in my brother’s eyes. He’s not…a forgiving man. He’s still a little annoyed about the incident in Serbia, by the way.’

Markovic cursed suddenly, in another language.

Sherlock smiled, and replied in the same language _. ‘Jezik,_ Markovic _. Razgovarali smo o ovome.’_

‘Don’t you talk to me like that!’ Markovic shouted, pointing a finger at Sherlock. ‘And don’t you threaten me!’

‘‘I don’t need to. You’ve seen what Mycroft is capable of. I’m surprised, I must admit, that you survived the explosion – clearly, me informing you of your wife’s affair turned out to be the lucky factor that saved your life. You left just in time.’ Sherlock surveyed the guns pointed in their direction. ‘Not so lucky for us, however.’

Markovic looked furious for a moment. ‘Guns down,’ he snapped. John, Lestrade and Donovan let out sighs of relief.

Markovic slammed the butt of his gun into Sherlock’s side, then his shoulder. Sherlock barely flinched. ‘Have to try harder than that – you know from experience that I don’t scream too easy.’

Donovan and Lestrade exchanged terrified looks – they had no idea what was going on but at least the guns weren’t pointing in their direction anymore. Slowly, they lowered their hands.

‘We are leaving,’ Markovic said sharply to Sherlock. ‘You will not stop us. When Mycroft comes we will be long gone. You will not find us. But I will find you. I will finish what we started.’

Sherlock yawned. ‘Cut to the song, please, Markovic, this is tedious.’

‘Men,’ Markovic barked. ‘Get them into the cell.’

The guns came up again. The small group was backed into a tiny room behind them.

Markovic grabbed Sherlock by the collar. ‘ _Ubiću te,_ Sherlock _. Niste čuli poslednju od ovoga_.’

Sherlock rolled his eyes, entirely unbothered. _‘Da imam novčić svaki put kada mi je to neko rekao…’_ he muttered.

‘Tell me, does this cell remind you of anything, little detective? Do you still have scars?’ Markovic hissed, loud enough that the others could hear what he was saying. ‘I might not be able to hurt you, but I am still in your head, am I not?’

Sherlock looked genuinely bored. ‘You don’t even come close to the worst I’ve got in my head,’ he told him. Markovic growled in fury and threw Sherlock backwards. The door shut with a clang.

The four occupants of the cell were silent, staying stock-still as they heard the men moving off. Finally, they breathed sighs of relief. Donovan slumped against the wall.

John, however, was angry. ‘What the _hell_ was that?’

‘I was stopping him from shooting you lot – he undoubtedly would’ve done,’ Sherlock replied. Unlike earlier, his voice was clipped. He seemed unsettled.

‘Is Mycroft really on his way?’ Lestrade said, taking stock of his surroundings. A single lightbulb allowed him to see they were in a cell barely bigger than a closet or a larder. None of them had phones – they’d been taken off them and no doubt destroyed or taken far away, so the trackers in their mobiles were useless.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, of course. I have a tracker embedded in the cuff of my shirt – I activated it shortly after they brought the guns up.’ Though Sherlock’s voice was steady, there was a forced calm there that John didn’t like.

‘Sherlock,’ he asked carefully, not wanting to put the detective on the defensive, ‘are you okay?’

‘Fine, John,’ Sherlock said stiffly. He moved to the back wall – it barely took two paces – and slid to the floor.

‘So?’ Donovan said belligerently, after a moment’s silence.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. ‘So what?’

‘How did you know that guy? Viktor Markovic?’

Sherlock tensed up visibly. His breathing was faster than it should be, and John frowned, wondering if those blows from Markovic’s gun had damaged him more than he was letting on. ‘That’s classified,’ he got out.

‘Oh, don’t give us that shit,’ Lestrade frowned. ‘I’ve let you in on loads of confidential crime scenes.’

‘You’ve encountered him before, Lestrade,’ Sherlock said quietly. ‘Well, he’s encountered you.’

Lestrade’s face was blank. ‘I’ve never seen that guy before in my life.’

Sherlock doubled over, and for a moment John was concerned. Then his friend straightened up, his face impassive. ‘He was – your assassin,’ he said.

‘My assassin? What are you talking about?’

‘I killed yours, John,’ Sherlock said. ‘But Markovic got away too fast.’

‘What do you mean, my assassin?’ Lestrade demanded.

‘The day I jumped.’

‘The day you – you mean when you faked your death?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock’s breathing was ragged, and John’s worry increased. ‘That was the real reason I jumped, you know,’ he said, his head buried in his hands.

Donovan snorted. ‘You jumped so you could gallivant of for two years without your so-called friends slowing you down. Admit it, freak.’

‘Donovan!’ Lestrade scolded. He knew she was just stressed and cold and fed-up, like the rest of them, but she could just behave until they got out of here.

Donovan and Sherlock in an enclosed space together did not spell good news.

‘No, Donovan,’ Sherlock said in a measured tone. ‘I jumped because Moriarty had three snipers aiming at Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and John and he would’ve killed them all unless I committed suicide.’

Donovan’s mouth opened, then shut again. Whatever she’d been expecting, that wasn’t it.

John and Lestrade didn’t know what to say, either. Lestrade felt a lump come into his throat. ‘Jesus,’ he said. Sherlock laughed weakly.

‘I couldn’t let you die.’

‘Jesus – I mean, wow,’ John said, stumbling back. He knocked into Donovan -  there wasn’t much room for stumbling.

‘Okay, but that still doesn’t explain how you knew that man – or how you knew his wife was sleeping with the coffin-maker.’

Sherlock pressed his hands to his ears.

‘Sherlock, mate?’ Lestrade asked anxiously. ‘You alright?’

‘He was right,’ Sherlock said, his voice muffled. ‘Oh, God, he was right.’

‘Right about what?’ John said, squatting down next to the detective.

‘This cell – it’s like – it’s just like –‘ Sherlock’s breathing was becoming faster, more desperate.

‘What’s wrong with the fre- him?’ Donovan asked, shifting away.

‘I don’t know,’ John murmured. ’Sherlock? Can you hear me?’

Sherlock had his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His breathing was rapid and shallow. After a moment, he gave a low moan.

‘Sherlock? Are you hurt?’

‘He was right,’ Sherlock moaned. ‘I can’t – the room – it’s too –‘

‘Sherlock, you’re scaring me now,’ John said. He shared a look with Lestrade, who shrugged helplessly.

‘Markovic,’ Sherlock gasped. ‘I met – Markovic – in –‘ he tried frantically to slow his pulse. ‘In Serbia,’ he finished.

‘What do you mean? Sherlock, what do you mean?’ John didn’t dare touch the detective.

‘Markovic and his terrorist cell – when I was dismantling Moriarty’s web –‘ But Sherlock was engulfed by a fit of panic when he mentioned Moriarty’s name, and couldn’t finish.

‘Is he alright?’ Lestrade said, looking uneasy as Sherlock tugged on his ink-dark curls.

‘I think he’s having a panic attack,’ John said, staring at Sherlock in horror. ‘A flashback, maybe. I experienced something similar, when I had PTSD. Is that right, Sherlock? Just nod if it is.’

He saw Sherlock’s head jerk in assent. Donovan sat helplessly in the corner. John rocked back on his heels. ‘Sherlock,’ he said urgently, ‘Sherlock, what brought this on? We need to know,’ he told Lestrade, ‘to avoid any other triggers.’

Lestrade nodded, feeling utterly useless. It was hard seeing his friend so vulnerable. ‘Has this happened before?’ he asked John.

‘Not that I know of,’ John replied guiltily, ‘but I haven’t been around as much as I should’ve. I haven’t seen him sleeping recently, though – it’s possible he’s been having nightmares.’

He turned back to his panicking friend. ‘Sherlock?’ he said more forcefully. ‘What brought this on?’

‘The room – the cell,’ Sherlock gasped. ‘It’s like my cell – when I was captured by Markovic – in Serbia.’

John froze. ‘Oh, God, Sherlock, no,’ he said in a low voice.

‘What is it?’ Donovan said, disturbed by seeing the psychopath so terrified.

‘The Serbians – did he hurt you?’ John’s voice rose. ‘Did that bastard Markovic hurt you when he had you captured?’

‘I was there – six weeks,’ Sherlock got out, as if each word was physically painful. ‘Torture,’ he breathed, as the flashback washed over him once more.

Lestrade, Donovan and John exchanged horrified glances.

‘Sherlock,’ John said, although his own voice was shaking now, ‘I need you to breathe slowly –‘

In a misguided attempt to calm Sherlock down, John reached out and put his hand on Sherlock’s back.

The effect was instantaneous. Sherlock violently flinched away from John, into the wall, at the same time letting out a ragged, rasping shriek that barely sounded human. It pierced right through John and Lestrade and even Donovan, as she clamped her hands over her ears and shrunk away.

‘Sherlock – Sherlock – I need you to –‘ John called, but it was futile. Sherlock was too far gone in the flashback.

_Just touching him on the back did that_ , John said, feeling sick.

He turned to Lestrade, who’s eyes were wide and fearful in the dim yellow light. ‘What do we do?’ he whispered.

‘I don’t know!’ John yelled, tugging on his hair. His voice bounced off the walls. Sherlock struggled away, his eyes blank and staring.

Sherlock began to mutter very fast in Serbian. Every now and then his voice would rise to a shriek and Lestrade and John would wince. Donovan was in tears.

Sherlock was trembling frighteningly – John managed to take his pulse and found it was sky high. His temperature was rapidly dropping too. Lestrade was pacing, little as he could in the cramped stone room. Everything John said or did seemed to drive Sherlock further into the hallucination.

‘I can’t do anything,’ John said uselessly. ‘I’m making it worse.’

‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ Donovan said, scrubbing furiously at her eyes.

‘He could pass out, which would be really…not good – he could be traumatized…we just need to try and keep him calm, okay?’ John’s eyes were frantic, he was pulling on his hair. Lestrade kicked the wall, desperate and angry.

‘Lestrade, you try – my voice is making it worse,’ John pleaded.

‘Why would you be making it worse?’

‘There’s a possibility he used me as his pseudo skull…’

Lestrade didn’t ask what that meant – he swapped places with John, pausing to give Sally a comforting squeeze on the shoulder.

‘Sherlock, mate…’ Lestrade said, voice brittle. ‘Can you hear me?’

He reached out and put his hand on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock went rigid. ‘I don’t know anything, please, please stop – I don’t _know_ anything!’

Lestrade flinched back. ‘God, this is bad. This is really, really bad.’

John’s white face was a mirror of his own.

‘Sally,’ John said desperately. ‘Sally, you try.’

Donovan stared up at him. ‘What can I do?’

‘Just try!’

Donovan looked over at Sherlock, curled in the corner. He was still begging nobody to stop hurting him, and she felt her chest tighten. ‘Okay,’ she whispered.

She shuffled forward. The ground was unpleasantly damp and cold. She moved closer. ‘Hey Sherlock?’ she breathed tentatively.

He didn’t stop muttering, but he didn’t flinch away, which was an improvement. She looked over at John and Lestrade, then back at the arrogant consulting detective she hated so much.

He wasn’t pleading with no one anymore. He was heaving dry sobs, his narrow shoulders shaking with the force of his breathing. She couldn’t decide what was worse.

‘Sherlock…’ she murmured. He stopped for a moment, freezing still.

Donovan reached out a trembling hand a placed it on the small of his back, between his shoulder blades. John shot her a warning glare, but she felt Sherlock relax under her touch.

‘You’re okay,’ she said softly. ‘You’re okay…’

‘Hurts,’ Sherlock said, his voice cracking.

Lestrade started at the sound of his voice.

‘What – what hurts, Sherlock?’

‘My back. It really hurts.’

‘It’s – you’re fine, Sherlock,’ Donovan said gently.

‘It hurts, Molly.’ Sherlock gave a low, uncharacteristic sob.

‘I’m – I’m not…’ Donovan felt completely lost.

Lestrade gave her an encouraging look.

‘I don’t think he’s in – in Serbia anymore,’ John said, almost inaudibly. ‘He thinks you’re Molly. Just play along till someone gets here.’

‘Molly _Hooper?’_

Sherlock had his head buried in his tremoring hands. He had the heels of his palms buried in his eyes, like he was trying to block out the pictures flashing through his brain.

‘John hit me, Molly,’ Sherlock whispered. His voice was strained. ‘He hit me. I was hurt, and he hurt me more.’

Donovan and Lestrade turned to look at John. His face was only half-lit by the naked lightbulb hanging from the cracked ceiling – but they could see he looked guilty.

‘I was going to explain,’ Sherlock said, each word full of pain. ‘I was going to tell him about the snipers. But not about this.’ He suddenly grabbed Donovan’s wrist in a vice-like grip. ‘Don’t tell John, Molly,’ he muttered. ‘He can’t know about Serbia. My back.’

‘Okay, I – I won’t tell John, alright?’

‘Please tell me someone is getting here soon,’ Lestrade muttered.

Suddenly there was a sound from outside, and they all jumped.

‘Anyone in here?’ they heard. The voices were muffled.

‘Yes! Yeah, we’re in here!’ John yelled. He banged on the door.

‘John, don’t!’ Lestrade yelped, but it was too late. Sherlock’s breathing quickened, and the two men turned to find him with an arm over his head. Shielding himself from something.

Donovan winced. Sherlock’s hand was holding hers so tight she could feel it begin to bruise. The lightbulb swung, casting shadows round the room and in the sudden flash of light she saw Sherlock’s fingers and knuckles were bleeding and raw. He’d tried to scratch – pummel his way out of the room. _Jesus, Jesus, fuck._

‘Shh, sh,’ she said, her voice breaking. Sherlock’s thin fingers tightened round her own.

‘In here!’ John cried. He kicked the steel door furiously with his foot. ‘We’re in here!’

‘John, stop shouting!’ Donovan said, wrapping an arm round Sherlock’s shoulders and pulling the rocking man close. She hated Sherlock – God, he was an arrogant arse – but learning what he’d done for Lestrade, who she quite liked, and seeing him cowering from his own invisible fears – she couldn’t help but want to protect him.

‘We’re getting you out!’ came a voice from the other side.

‘Molly, Molly, Molly,’ Sherlock said into his quaking hand, ‘you deserve better than a freak like me…’

The words were said with such self-loathing Donovan felt nauseous. The pleading and the screaming had been horrifying, but Sherlock talking about himself with such hatred – was heartbreaking.

‘Molly Hooper, you deserve the world,’ Sherlock murmured, scratching at the back of his hands. ‘God!’

‘Hey, hey, you’re going to be fine,’ she said quickly. There was a banging, then several loud cracks – were they trying to shoot the bloody lock off?

At that moment the lightbulb went out.

After that it was chaos. They could hear Sherlock’s uncontrolled breathing and hear him shouting in Serbian  – and when the light flickered on again a moment later John was clutching a bloody nose.

‘Okay,’ he said thickly, ‘I asked for that.’

Sherlock was clawing at the floor now, desperately trying to pull air into his lungs while memories of his two years away flooded the rooms of his Mind Palace.

‘My Mind Palace, John!’ he gasped, praying he understood.

‘What does he mean?’ Donovan said, wincing. Sherlock’s grip on her hand was painful now.

But before John could say anything, Sherlock – who’d had his back against the wall as he struggled away from them – slid to the floor in a faint.

John leaned over. ‘Shit,’ he said, blood dripping from his nose. ‘Unconscious. Hyperventilating, I guess. Get us out faster, please!’

At that moment the door flew off it’s hinges with a clang and the company inside leapt back.

‘Did you ring an ambulance?’ John said urgently.

The Scotland Yard officers who’d opened the doors stared in horror. One man with blood streaming from his nose, another unconscious on the floor, a terrified woman gripping his hand – and the only officer who looked vaguely in control was milk-white and trembling.

‘What on _earth_ happened in here?’

‘That doesn’t matter – did you ring an ambulance?’

‘Uh – yeah, there’s one on its way.’

‘Thank God.’

Lestrade, John, and Donovan were helped out while paramedics swarmed round Sherlock, who was feebly trying to bat them off. One attempted to tend to John’s nose, but he waved them away. Some of the blood on his face was Sherlock’s, anyway – from the detective’s bleeding knuckles. And he was fairly certain his nose wasn’t broken.

He kind of felt he deserved it, anyway.

Lestrade had an arm round Donovan.

‘You okay?’

‘Yeah,’ she sighed. ‘Guess I’m just – seeing him in a different light now, that’s all.’

‘I think we all are.’

They watched as John climbed into the back of the ambulance after Sherlock, despite Sherlock’s insistence that he didn’t need an ambulance, he needed a nicotine patch, and he would be just fine if they all stopped touching him – then John pointed out that Sherlock had been whacked several times with a gun and passed out and needed to be checked over.

‘We can get Molly Hooper to do it if you like…’

The last thing Lestrade and Donovan saw before the ambulance doors shut was Sherlock relaxing into John’s arms as the older man pressed his face into Sherlock’s curls, trying to stop himself crying.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes to the hospital and is treated by Molly.
> 
> John learns he has a lot to make up for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes just so you know the serbian in the chapter before sherlock says:
> 
> "Language, Markovic. We talked about this."
> 
> later on Markovic says:
> 
> 'I'll kill you, Sherlock. You haven't heard the last of this."
> 
> and sherlock replies:
> 
> "If I had a coin every time someone told me..."
> 
> i'm not fluent in serbian so thank god for google translate!
> 
> mary's just a previous girlfriend of john's in this that didn't work out. john and sherlock are friends but live apart.
> 
> sorry for the long long wait, i've had other things on. hope you like, please comment below xx

 

 

Sherlock was silent for the entire ambulance ride. Eventually, when they began to reach civilisation, he kicked up a fuss and ordered the paramedics to let him go home, back to Baker Street.

‘Sherlock, you can’t. You haven’t let the paramedics look at you yet,’ John said, struggling to keep his voice steady.

The paramedic who was taking Sherlock’s pulse glanced over at John. His nose was still dripping blood.

‘Sure you don’t want us to check you over too, Doctor Watson?’

John shook his head emphatically, then winced. ‘No. I – I kind of deserved this.’ He gestured vaguely at his bruising face.

The paramedic looked at him, then back at Sherlock. Sherlock had refused to let anyone touch him, and although his voice was calm, his hands were shaking violently.

It had taken enough effort to wrestle him out of his beloved Belstaff coat.

John knew why. That coat was Sherlock’s armour. After what had happened, he didn’t want it ripped away.

John held the coat on his lap, and tried not to break down.

When they got to the hospital, Sherlock climbed out, disregarding the paramedic’s helping hands. ‘Molly can treat me,’ he said, averting John’s eyes.

They made their way to the mortuary, John self-conscious of the blood now running into his collar. He tried in vain to mop it up.

When they entered the lab, Molly glanced up with a gasp. She dropped a vial of what looked suspiciously like human blood but was oblivious to it spreading across her papers.

She looked from John to Sherlock nervously. ‘What happened?’

Sherlock refused to look at John. He leant against the counter. ‘Someone hit me with their gun. John’s insisting I get treated, and…’ his eyes softened slightly as Molly’s warm brown ones caught his own. ‘You were my first choice.’

Molly looked anxiously at John. ‘Can I see?’

John ducked his head, mopping awkwardly at his nose.

Still determinedly avoiding John’s gaze, Sherlock began to undo his buttons one handed. He dropped his shirt to the floor, and, doctor’s instinct taking over, John looked up to see how bad the injuries were.

He felt sick.

Sherlock’s back was to him, and he could see the scars. They marred his whole back, his upper arms and shoulder blades and lower torso, raised and thick, stitched with ugly lines.

Sherlock was frozen, every muscle tensed.

Molly inspected Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘I think it’s just bruised,’ she said tentatively. ‘But a rib might be broken, I’m not sure…’

John couldn’t take it anymore. He rushed from the room, in search of the nearest toilet. He vomited and retched, then bought a coffee and stood outside the door, unable to go back in. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

He’d had _no idea._

No idea that while he’d been sitting in a cosy therapist’s office, Sherlock had been risking his life to keep him safe. That while he’d been drinking and smashing the glass on the floor, Sherlock had been cold, or in pain, or surrounded by people who would kill him without a second thought. While John had been lamenting the selfishness of what Sherlock had done, leaving him behind, Sherlock had been doing everything to keep him safe.

John’s thoughts were muddled. He swallowed; his mouth tasted of bile.

Sherlock wouldn’t even _look_ at him.

John wasn’t sure how long he stood there. Several of the St Bart’s hospital staff passed him, looking at him in curiosity, but they didn’t pry.

Eventually the door snapped open.

Sherlock was back in his grey shirt and coat. He had an arm round Molly’s shoulders and Molly’s eyes were filled with tears, but she was smiling.

When she looked at John, though, her smile faltered.

‘He’ll be okay,’ she informed him curtly. ‘Ribs are just bruised. Make him take the painkillers. Please.’

Molly turned her back on John, looping her arms round Sherlock’s neck.

‘Take the painkillers,’ she told him firmly. ‘There is _no reason_ not to.’

Sherlock dropped his eyes. ‘Okay,’ he muttered mutinously.

John raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll take him home.’

Molly still looked pissed. ‘You do that.’

John and Sherlock walked in silence, on their way to get a cab back to 221b Baker Street.

‘Molly seems mad at me,’ John said, after a while.

There was a pause, so long John began to wonder if Sherlock had even heard his question. But then the detective spoke, sounding thoughtful.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock mused, climbing into the cab. ‘She seems to think your treatment of me after the Hiatus was…uncalled for.’

‘It was!’ John burst out. The guilt flooded up inside him again. ‘It was, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have…I mean…’

‘Shut up, John,’ Sherlock said tiredly.

‘It’s not right, Sherlock!’

Sherlock stared out the window. Ignoring him.

John worked it out.

‘Are you embarrassed?’ he said, cautiously. ‘About…what happened? Because – it’s understandable. I know what it’s like. I don’t know how you held up so long without –‘

‘Be quiet, John,’ Sherlock snapped. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. I was doing fine before. And you certainly didn’t care before, so don’t start now.’

John felt like he’d been slapped in the face. ‘Sherlock –‘ he tried.

They were nearing Baker Street. ‘Does Mrs Hudson know?’

Sherlock sighed. ‘I saw no reason to tell her. She suspects, I think. I don’t sleep.’

‘Sherlock, this is stupid. Let me help – I’ll move back into Baker Street.’ John had been considering it ever since things with his girlfriend Mary hadn’t worked out, but he’d been reluctant. Wary Sherlock would hurt him again.

Sherlock needed someone with him. The detective hadn’t been caring for himself again, John could see. He’d lost a dramatic amount of weight, his cheekbones more prominent than ever and his cerulean eyes hollow. He hadn’t been sleeping, eating – and –

‘I haven’t used again,’ Sherlock said quietly, displaying that unerring ability to read John’s thought processes.

‘I didn’t think you had.’

‘Can’t we just –‘ Sherlock looked desperate now, as the cab pulled up. The detective paid without thinking – he was used to getting cabs alone by now. It had been nearly a year since his return. ‘Forget about it,’ he finished lamely.

‘No, Sherlock,’ John said, as they climbed the seventeen steps to the flat. ‘It’s not healthy. It’s not. You need someone to talk to.’

‘I have Molly!’ Sherlock said, his voice cold and furious. ‘I don’t need you. Mycroft got me out of Serbia just a week before I returned , and she let me stay and gave me unconditional forgiveness – and I put her through hell, too.’ Sherlock didn’t know what he was saying – he didn’t know why he was pushing John away after wanting him to return for so long. But he was. ‘She looked after me, after you _hurt me._ I was already hurt, but all that mattered was you and your feelings and your suffering. Now get out of MY HOUSE!’

John flinched when Sherlock yelled. ‘A week before…’ he choked out. He understood the implications.

‘Yes.’ Sherlock said. He turned on his heel and strode into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Mrs Hudson came in, holding two mugs of tea and looking apprehensive. ‘Is everything okay?’ she said. ‘John! You’re here.’

John reached out for one of the mugs she was holding, but she frowned and held it out of reach. ‘This is for Sherlock.’ She knocked on Sherlock’s bedroom door then put it on the floor outside. ‘And this one’s for me.’

She turned back to John. ‘Are you moving back in, dear?’ she said. ‘Sherlock needs you, you know. He pretends he doesn’t, but you should hear him – playing the violin till all hours of the morning, never sleeps, that man.’ She tutted.

John knew she was guilt-tripping him, but he didn’t care.

‘He’s kept your room the same – still got some of your things there, John.’

John sighed. ‘I’ll stay,’ he said, scrubbing at his blood-encrusted nose. ‘I’ve got a lot to make up for.’

Mrs Hudson nodded severely. ‘Yes, you do, young man.’

As she turned to leave, she added, ‘and I would feel inclined to whack you with a frying pan, not just my fist. Sherlock has been remarkably self-restrained.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so did you like it?
> 
> i'm going to do lestrade and donovan's reactions next, but might take a while.
> 
> kudos, comments and prompts pls! xx


	3. Author's Note

Hi, it’s me.

This is a note to say I’m really really sorry, but I won’t be posting anything anymore.

There’s a good reason for this, but I’d rather not say what it is.

I won’t be contactable, and I’m really sorry. If anyone wants to finish writing my stories for me, cause I know I left some really awful cliffhangers, I’ll put the rest of the storyline below. I know how annoying unfinished fanfic is.

You’ve been amazing readers and I’ve loved reading your comments, made my day 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading hope you liked :)
> 
> leave kudos, comments, constructive criticism and PROMPTS PROMPTS PROMPTS i need inspiration
> 
> btw molly hooper is awesome she does deserve the world
> 
> love y'all for reading xx


End file.
